


Much Ado About Tolkien

by FlukeOfFate



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Boromir is easily influenced but what else is new?, Crossover, F/M, Faramir is confused, Gandalf plays match maker, Gimli is a crabby dwarf amongst elves, Legolas is a sassy little bitch, M/M, Much Ado About Nothing, Parody, Saruman is a douche, Tolkien, and not so parody, as is tolkien, elladan and elrohir are silly little shits, he is rolling in his grave, lindir is a bit lovesick, the march wardens are abused by said twins, thranduil is not amused, thrandy loves his wine, totlly taking and molding shakespeare plays to my will, wtf am I doing?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlukeOfFate/pseuds/FlukeOfFate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much Ado About Nothing, Tolkien style! </p><p>The company of the Istari have come to Rivendell. Much to the chagrin of Thanduil and Legolas, the Dwarf Gimli has come as well. Elrond watches as Arwen and Aragorn fall head over heels, while Gandalf plays Matchmaker, and Saruman is a jerk.</p><p>This does not strictly follow the LotR story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Istari are Approaching, with Men and a Dwarf

**Author's Note:**

> Much Ado About Nothing is the only Shakespeare play that I can definitely say I know pretty damned well. And it suits itself so perfectly to Lord of the Rings, I just had to attempt this. It's a big leap for me. I've seen a few other fics in different fandoms attempt this, but I was never really satisfied by the ones I read. This will not be written in poetry form, sorry.  
> But often (not always) dialogue will be ripped from the original, with a few Tolkien twists. This will likely be most fun for those already familiar with the play. Also, I am HEAVILY influenced by the 1993 movie version of Much Ado. You will see the influence in this fic, if you are familiar with it. (I highly recommend it, even though it is marred by a fantastically terrible Keanu Reeves as Don John. The other actors more than make up for it.) 
> 
> The characters are going to be kept mostly true to their original selves (Sort of. Kind of. I will get silly with them too...), with mostly traditional relations to each other. Also, we assume that the Mirkwood and Rivendell Elves are kin, somewhat, for this fic, though exact ties are not important. 
> 
> So, without further ado—haaa, see what I did there?--Here is the CAST: (Approximation, because some characters are skewed.)
> 
> Benedick: Gimli  
> Beatrice: Legolas  
> Antonio: Thranduil  
> Leonato: Elrond  
> Hero: Arwen  
> Claudio: Aragorn  
> Don Pedro: Gandalf  
> Don John: Saruman  
> Borachio: Boromir  
> Conrad/Messenger: Faramir  
> Margret: Erestor  
> Ursula: Glofindel  
> Balthasar: Lindir  
> The Night Watch: Haldir, Orophin, Rumil  
> Dogberry and Verges: Eledan and Elrohir

Before the rays of Arien broke upon the horizon, a messenger approached Rivendell. He drove his steed at a gallop, his mission one of haste. He slipped through hidden paths and bridges, guided only by his skilled ranger eyes and the words of a wizard. Finally, he emerged into the Hidden Valley of Imladris, protected by Lord Elrond Peredhil, as day's first light shined upon it's tallest tower.

  
Elven guards, ever watchful, held weapons at the ready as the horseman crossed the final bridge to the haven. He held aloft a banner, marking him as friend to Elrond's house.

  
“Peace, friends!” the man cried. “I have a message for Lord Elrond! I come under the mark of the Istari!”

  
He was then greeted by slip of an elf, who waved his hand at the guards to stand down.

  
“I am Lindir,” he declared, tentatively approaching the rider, who dismounted at the greeting.

  
“I am Faramir, son of Denethor, of Gondor.”

  
“What news from our friends in the West?”

  
“I hath a letter, penned by the Wizards Gandalf the Grey and Saruman the White.” Faramir revealed a sealed parchment. “I've instructions to give this to Lord Elrond.”

  
Lindir nodded. “I will take you to him.” He motioned for another elf to take Faramir's steed, then turned on his heel to show him the way. Faramir followed closely behind, while taking in the splendors of the hidden dwelling, noting each step and turn amid the glittering architecture and rushing waterfalls. Lindir led him to a tall set of doors, and knocked three times.

  
“Who dares disturb my slumber?” Came an drawling voice from within, tinged with irritation, followed by a high pitched giggle, then a sigh from yet a third person.

  
“Relax, Ada, you can more than your fair share to drink last night.”

  
The higher, feminine voice, added “Oh, do not worry so, Legolas!”

  
The door opened, revealing a elleth of raven hair and shining eyes that held wisdom and mirth. “Lindir! What matter brings you here so early?”

  
“A messenger of the Istari, M'lady.” He said simply, before bowing and taking his leave.

  
Faramir stepped forward. “I am to seek out Lord Elrond. Is he among you?”

  
“I am here.” Spoke a fourth Elf from the furthest corner of the room. His voice was clear and pleasant. He offered as warm smile as he approached the door. “What news do you bring?”

  
Faramir handed him the message, which Elrond quickly scanned, and his smile grew wide. “I learn here in this letter, that the Istari Mithrandir and Saruman come this night to Rivendell.”

  
'They are very near, M'lord. Not three leagues off when I left them.”

  
“Since when does Mithrandir announce his visits?” asked a blond, fair elf with a crown of twigs sitting askew upon his head. “I've never known him to act in so proper a fashion.” Faramir disliked the haughty air about him.

  
“In truth, it was Saruman's idea.” Faramir admitted.

  
“Why doesn't that surprise me?” Said a younger elf, also fair of hair and face. His stance was so similar to the crowned elf that Faramir could only assume they were direct kin.

  
“They come with a company of Men from the White City. They hath driven back a lingering darkness that was set upon the land.” Faramir revealed.

  
“How many have you lost in this action?” Elrond asked.

  
“But few of any sort, and none of name.”

  
Elrond gave a small sigh of relief, and continuing to inspect the letter. “I find here that the Istari have bestowed much honor on a ranger called Aragorn.”

  
“Oh, what roses I spy upon thy cheeks, Arwen!” teased Legolas. For surely, the elleth bore a blush and fervently waved him away.

  
“He hath borne himself beyond the promise of a king! I cannot speak well enough of his deeds. His bravery is beyond measure, as is the rest of their party, my brother Boromir and Gimli, son of Gloin included.”

  
“Gimli? Ada, is that not the son of one of Oakenshield's company, whom you imprisoned for some time?” Legolas asked lazily.

  
“A Dwarf?” The older blond spat, and furiously sipped at a glass of wine. “I had hoped that Mithrandir had learned to stop meddling with the likes of the Naugrim.”

  
“Language, Thranduil.” Elrond admonished.

  
“I remember this dwarf—that father of his kept his portrait in a locket. I happened upon the two of them during some trades with Erebor some years ago. He hath an excellent stomach.” Legolas said, implying much about the dwarf's physical state, and Thranduil smiled wickedly in approval. “I pray you, how many hath he killed, and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he killed? For indeed I promised to eat all of his killing.”

  
Faramir was taken aback at the unusual statement, wondering at what strange games this apparently noble elf was playing. He struggled to respond.“Gimli is a valiant warrior.” Faramir declared, defending the dwarf. “He hath done good service in these wars.”

  
“And what is he to a lord?”

  
“...a lord, to a lord. Stuffed with all honorable virtues.”

  
“It is so indeed, he is no less than a stuffed Dwarf!” said elf with a flourish. His father raised his glass. “Who is his companion now? He always hath some new sworn brother trailing with him.”

  
“He is most in the company of the right and noble Aragorn.”

  
Legolas gave an exaggerated sigh and looked despairingly at Arwen. “Sweet Elbereth, he shall hang upon him like a disease!”

  
“You must not mind the young Prince,” Elrond consoled Faramir, who by now was unsure how to proceed with the conversation. It was obvious that Legolas would play word games all day if given half the chance.

  
“Of course M'lord,” he conceded, and added, to Legolas, “I will refrain from mentioning. For I can see that Gimli is not in your good books.

  
“No, and if he were, I would burn my library!” Legolas declared and joined his father for a glass of wine.

  
Lindir returned then, to inform them of the wizards' approach.

  
Elrond sighed. “Then let us make haste, for Saruman does not like to be kept waiting.”

  
“This should be interesting,” Arwen whipsered to Faramir, who was now glad for a distraction. He wasn't sure if he could handle any more mischief.


	2. Reunions, bitter and sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli and Legolas almost come to blows, Aragorn thinks Arwen is hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having too much fun with this. I'm trying to keep the chapters short so I can manage a quick update schedule.

The Elves found Mithrandir, Saruman, and their mortal comrades gathered in the main square. Faramir quickly rejoined his companions and stood by his brother's side. The troop looked a trifle travel weary, and indeed would require sustenance and rest, but all seemed in good spirits. All, save one. Saruman held himself with his usual solitary grace. He nodded his greeting to Elrond as they approached, but it was Gandalf who spoke first.

“Elrond! You have come to meet our trouble. All others would avoid such cost, yet you embrace us.”

“Truly, trouble follows you wherever you roam. But more troublesome it would be to deny you, good friend.” The two clasped each other on the shoulder, each glad to see an old companion. “Let this be a merry gathering.”

Gandalf turned his glance to Arwen. “I think this is your daughter.”

“Her mother hath many times told me so.” 

The Elf and Wizard continued their conversation aside, soon joined by Saruman, who more observed than contributed to any friendly chatter. Behind them a gruff voice scoffed and whispered, not so quietly, “Are elves so fickle that he must ask the mother?”

Legolas heard him plainly, and watched as a man—Aragorn, he was certain by the way Arwen gazed upon him—not so gently elbowed him for his rude remark. 

“I wonder that you speak, Master Gimli, nobody marks you.” Legolas commented snidely. 

Gimli recognized his old adversary at once. “Ah, Master Disdain! Are you yet living?”

“I am an Elf. We tend to do that. Or have you forgotten?” Legolas replied, dryly. “And even Elven courtesy must convert to disdain when you come in our presence.”

Gimli snorted. “I am loved of all peoples, only Elves excepted, and of the fair folk I love none.”

“A dear happiness to Elves! I assure you I would rather hear a Balrog crack his whip than a Dwarf swear he loves me.”

By now, the rest of the gathering were watching the Elven Prince and Dwarf Lord banter with increasing amusement. 

“I hope to Mahal you keep such a mind, so some worthy dwarf might escape a predestinate scratched face.”

Legolas frowned. “Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.”

Scoffing, Gimli spat back. “Parroting back my words like a typical Elf. You squawk in circles.”

“A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.”

“Hah,” Gimli growled. “I would my axe prove faster and endure longer than thy tongue.” 

Aragorn then stepped between the two, before the word game could turn violent. “Master Gimli, a pray you stand down. We are in the company of friends.”

“In the name of our friendship I stand down, Aragorn, but not for the love of Elves.” 

“Yes, slip behind your friend, Master Dwarf.” Legolas called as Arwen intervened, grabbing her kinsman by the shoulder and hushing him before a new battle could erupt. 

“I think it wise we be on our way,” she beckoned, meeting Aragorn's eyes, and between them passed unspoken agreement. Legolas allowed himself to be led away. 

Gandalf cleared his throat. “I hope you do not regret your welcome, Lord Elrond.”

Elrond smiled. “Not as of yet. Time may prove this a most amusing visit.”

“We will stay here at least a month!” Gandalf announced.

“I am at your service, as well as yours, of course, Saruman.” Elrond assured them. “Come. Make yourselves at home.” 

“We thank you, Lord Elrond.” Saruman said.

Aragorn stayed behind with Gimli as the other followed Elrond and his kin inside. Gimli was all but pouting at having made retreat to Legolas. Aragorn paid no mind to the Dwarf's feelings, for in that moment he was a man under a spell, and had only one thought to indulge. 

“Gimli, did you note the daughter of Lord Elrond?”

The Dwarf rolled his eyes. “I noted her not, but I looked on her.”

“Is she not a modest young lady?”

“Do you question me as an honest man should do, for my true simple judgement? Or would you have me speak after my custom as being a professed tyrant to their kind?”

“No, I pray thee speak in sober judgement.”

“Well, methinks she is too low for a high praise, too little for a great praise, and too Elfish for me to care.”

Aragorn groaned. “Do not make sport of this. I speak in all honesty.” 

“Would you buy her, that you enquire after her?”

“Can the world buy such a jewel?”

“Aye! And a case to put it into. Trust a Dwarf on this.”

“In my eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.”

“I can see yet without the aid of a spyglass and I see no such matter. Legolas exceeds her in beauty as much as spring does winter, if not for his awful disposition.” Gimli considered his friend for a moment. “I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?”

Aragorn sheepishly replied. “I scarcely believe I could stop myself, if she were to allow it.”

Gimli was aghast. “It's come to this? You could do better than to tie yourself to an Elf, my friend. Look, here comes Gandalf. Perhaps he can dissuade you from this madness.”

Gandalf approached the pair with questioning eyes. “Why did you not follow us inside? Or has Master Gimli's wrath not yet settled?”

“My wrath has naught to do with it. He,” Gimli puffed, “is in love. With who? With Arwen, that Elf Lord's daughter.”

“Ahhh, congratulations if you love her! The lady is very well worthy!” Gandalf patted Aragorn on the back with much vigor. 

“Do not tease, Gandalf.” Aragorn muttered, already put out at Gimli's reaction.

“I do not! I speak my thought.”

“And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.” Aragorn said in earnest.

“It is my opinion that she is an Elf, and I neither feel how she should be loved, or know how she would be worthy.” Gimli grumbled from below. “If I ever change my tune, you may hang me like a target and shoot at me.”

Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully then addressed Gimli. “Go to Elrond, and tell him we will surely attend supper, for indeed he hath made great preparation.”

“That my friends, is something I can respect. Until tonight, friends.” Gimli departed.

“I do hope no blood is shed before supper.” Aragorn commented as they watched the dwarf leave. “It does not compliment meals.”

“I'm sure Master Gimli can keep his axe at bay.” Gandalf reassured the ranger. 

Aragorn sighed, “I have met Lady Arwen before, in my youth. But that was in time of war, and so I looked upon her with a soldier's eye. I did not allow my mind to turn to thoughts of love, for such thoughts were eclipsed by the rougher tasks at hand. Now, peace has come, and with it my mind is clouded by thoughts of her. But I am mortal, and surely her father shall find naught but folly in our union, and surely I lack the eloquence to convince either of them to the contrary.”

“Ah, you leave the talking to me! We shall have reveling tonight,” Gandalf explained, “I will assume some disguise and tell fair Arwen that I am Aragorn. I shall capture her heart with my amorous tale, and then after with her father I will break, and the conclusion is, she shall be thine!”

Aragorns face lit up with hope, and the two made off to prepare their scheme.


	3. Randy Thrandy Plans a Party. Saruman Plots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil: party planner and gossip extraordinaire. Boromir and Faramir plant ideas in Saruman's brain, unintentionally.

Elrond shuffled through several ledgers at his desk. Erestor stood at the ready, quill in hand checking off a list of to-do's for the celebration that evening.

“How about the music for tonight? Has Lindir arranged for the music?” Elrond asked.

“Actually, M'lord, King Thranduil hath wrestled that duty from him,” Erestor explained. “He said that 'Lindir may know his ballads and histories, but to leave true entertainment to the experts'. He also had taken it upon himself to check upon the decorations and costumes.”

Elrond practically snorted in amusement. “Well, it's better than having him drowning in a goblet all day.”

“Oh, worry not, he always has his cup in hand.”

Elrond shook his head and continued perusing the documents on his desk.

“My ears are burning!” came a lofty voice as Thranduil opened the door, barely giving the pretense of a knock as he sauntered in. “And not only because I find myself the object of your chin-wagging.”

“What are you on about? And did you take care of the music?”

“Always so serious! The music is all set, worry not. But I have news for you that you have not yet dreamt of.”

“Good news, I hope?” He always worried when Thranduil got excited over anything. 

“Good as a party invitation! I was off deciding just what I should wear for the feast tonight--”

“That's why you were so keen on the party arrangements. You wanted first choice of the raiments.” Erestor accused.

Thranduil gave him a mock pout. “One must always try to stand out. You might like to try it sometime—really, all that black, how melancholy—Now, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted, I overheard Mithrandir—Mithrandir! of all people—tell Aragorn that he was in love with Arwen, your daughter! He means to court her in a dance tonight, and if she agrees, he plans to ask your good will on the spot! Oh, Valar, I am astonished that I managed to remain unseen—what a sight it was, they way they rehearsed!”

Elrond stood up, his mouth agape. He was certain that he heard Eretor drop his quill. “My friend, you are certain the wine hath not addled your brain?”

“Oh ye of little faith, Elrond. It's barely noon. There will be no addling at least until tea time. One cannot arrange a celebration properly without a clear head.” 

“As clear as yours gets, anyway.” Erestor muttered. 

“Go ask him yourself, if you so doubt me.”

“No, no!” Elrond said, shaking his head, still bewildered that the thought of the aged wizard wishing to wed his daughter, “Well will hold it as a dream till it appear itself. But I will acquaint Arwen withal, that she might be better prepared if it so happens as you say.”

The Lord of Rivendell left hurriedly, his robes swishing behind him. Thranduil and Eretor were left alone in the room. 

Erestor gave Thranduil a steady look. “I truly hope this is not some elaborate hoax, M'lord, for if so it is truly in bad taste.”

“The only thing in bad taste here is your outfit.” Thranduil retorted. 

******

Saruman the White always carried himself in the manner of kings—confidently, and often with a sense of self-importance. He knew himself to be wise, and his age and origins only backed such arguments. The downside to his years was that he knew and had seen too much, and recent events had left him in a dour state. He and Gandalf were no longer seeing eye-to-eye. Their army had beaten back the darkness in their most recent crusade, but where did it end? An unending cycle of victories and defeats were clear in his mind, and he could only see one way to end it, and still maintain his status. The Istari must aid Sauron. It would not be long before he again rallied his troops against the peoples of Middle Earth, and hope would be lost.

Gandalf was ever foolishly optimistic. He held faith that lesser beings than themselves could combat the darkness in ways they never could, and such thoughts burned his pride. He was of greater importance than any Elf, Man, or Dwarf. He could be the one to unite Middle Earth under one Dark Lord, if only Gandalf would join him.

Whilst he brewed over options in his mind, Faramir discovered him in the Garden. 

“Lord Saruman,” He greeted him with a small but formal bow. “Why are you thus out of measure sad?”

It was a bold statement to for youngest in their party to make. Saruman regarded Faramir for a moment, before answering. “There is no measure in the occasion that breeds. Therefore, the sadness is without limit.” 

“You should hear reason.”

“And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it?”

“If not a remedy, then the strength to endure?”

Faramir had a gentle spirit and was easily the little brother to everyone in the company, not just Boromir. Saruman however, saw him as naught but a pawn. His desire to please others could prove useful. 

“I know that lately you and Gandalf have been at odds.” Faramir said. “In these times of darkness, we must hold together. For this reason, true strength and joy can be obtained only by the fair weather you make yourself.”

“Wise words, Master Faramir.” Saruman told him. “But I admit, there are times when I would rather be a canker in Gandalf's hedge than a rose in his grace.”

“Ah, brother! I have found you!” Boromir entered the garden. “Hear this now, I have the most delightful news.”

“What news?”

“I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.” Boromir whispered with excitement. 

“How came you to this?” Faramir inquired.

“That Elf King of Mirkwood volunteered me to perfume the rooms and halls for the celebration.” He explained with ire, “And as I performed this task, I heard it agreed upon, that Gandalf would woo Arwen for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This should be interesting!”

Saruman listened with keen interest. The men shared Galndalf's belief that hope and love would win out over the darkness. It was folly, he knew. As it stood now the men's loyalty to Gandalf too strong. Saruman plotted. This marriage plan could serve as a model to build mischief on. Perhaps he could use it to break their fellowship. “Well, let us not sit here. Lead on, Boromir. This may prove food to my displeasure.” 

He would make his own fair weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for what I have done to Thranduil. Only, I'm not. Not really. 
> 
> But any seriousness that this parody contained has gone out the window when he's involved. He is becoming this magical pixie that influences the whole story. 
> 
> And he is Fabulous.


	4. Let's get this party started

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the party begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to lose control of Thrandy before this fic lets up I think. But he is mildly well-behaved in this chapter. Glorfindel will definitely tease him later, I'm sure.

Music echoed in the great halls of Rivendell that night. Elrond had ordered his cooks to prepare their finest morsels. Table upon table was heavy-laden with fruits, meats, and all manners of wines and ales. Decorations of ivy and flowing silk banners were hung throughout, highlighted by dripping candles and silvery ornaments. Elrond was forced to admit that Thranduil, despite his inflated ego and wild attitude, did have good taste. He had worried it might turn into a gaudy mess, as he did retain a memory of a particularly garish party in Mirkwood in his youth, and the morning after thereof had been most unpleasant. This celebration looked like it might maintain a level of dignity that might keep Saruman happy. Gandalf could always be counted on to find joy in the most casual of gatherings, but Saruman demanded a much grander effort. Anything less than the best was beneath him. Gandalf might not dress for dinner, but Saruman could always be counted upon to criticize.

Elrond spied Thranduil off to the side gossiping with his son and Glorfindel as he entered the festivieties, his daughter Arwen by his side. The three blondes made for a dazzling spectacle. Glorfindel, robed in white, always held himself with such poise that he could not go unnoticed even if he had been an Orc hiding in the dark. Legolas was clad in some of his finest garbs, opting for a simple mask of delicately crafted silver leaves, that echoed similar decorations woven through his hair and embroidered down the arms of his soft green tunic. And Thranduil...

Thranduil had indeed taken first choice of the masquerade garments. Elrond could only imagine that a peacock must be Thranduil's spirit animal—for he was indeed clad in teal hues and a peacock feathered headdress, with a lofty sheer over-robe that draped gracefully to the floor. He definitely stood out, as promised. 

Perhaps, even more eye-catching than Thranduil, was Erestor. He was trying his best to shy away and linger in shadows as per his custom, but his appearance could not go unnoticed. It wasn't that Erestor was dressed more wildly than the King of Mirkwood, indeed his attire was tame in comparison, but Erestor had forsaken his usual somber black attire for deep, bold shades of burgundy and gold, with black dancing in sparse patterns near his neck and shoulders, and echoed again down his sleeves. Erestor looked almost uncomfortable with the looks he was receiving from many of the partygoers. Even little Lindir, who was the very essence of subtlety in his pale blue and grey ensemble, could not stop himself from gawking more than once. 

Elrond looked about the room as he approached the group. Their guests had not yet made their appearance at the dance. 

“Was not Saruman at supper?” Elrond asked coming up behind Thranduil, who nearly hit him in the face with one of his massive feathers as he turned to answer him. 

“I saw him not.”

“How tartly that wizard looks. I never can see him but I am heart burned an hour after,” commented Legolas before taking a sip from his goblet.

“He is of a very melancholy disposition.” Arwen agreed. Legolas let out a small chortle. 

“He were an excellent Elf that were made just between him and that Dwarf, Gimli. The one is too much like an image and says nothing, and the other is ever more tattling.”

Elrond smiled warmly at Legolas. The young prince could certainly turn a phrase, even if it was not always polite and such a succinct description of Saruman caused his lips to curl. “Then,” Elrond suggested, “Half Gimli's tongue in Saruman's mouth, and half Saruman's melancholy in Gimli's face...”

“With a good leg and a good foot, and money enough in his purse—yes, such an Elf could win any prize he desired if he tried.”

“By my troth, Legolas, dare you speak of finding yourself a prize?” 

“In faith, he's to curst!” Thranduil chirped. “Elrond, if he were looking for any prizes this evening, my son would not use a Dwarf as a scale for merit.”

Legolas laughed. “Oh, I could not endure a Dwarf! Have you seen the beard on his face? I would rather lie in the woolen.”

“Thank the Valar for that!” Thranduil said tilting his glass as in a toast. “I might have a heart attack if you said otherwise. Elrond you plant wild ideas in my son's head.”

Elrond quirked and eyebrow at Thranduil. “It was not I who mentioned the Dwarf.” 

“Humph. Well, Arwen, I trust that you will differ to your father on these important decisions.” He said, knowingly. 

Legolas, privy to his father's gossip, grabbed Arwens hand and very seriously said. “Yes, faith, it is Arwen's duty to make curtsy and say, 'Ada, as it please you.' But for all that cousin, let it be a handsome fellow! Or else make another curtsy and say, 'Ada, as it please me.'

Elrond shook his head. “Arwen shall have final word on this, and I shall respect it. Worry not Legolas. And I hope that you might one day be fitted with someone worthy.” Elrod turned to Arwen and said, “Remember what I told you: If the wizard do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.

The pipers finished their song as Lindir heralded the arrival of the Company of the Istari. Many hooded figures entered, each of their identities concealed behind elaborate masks.. 

“Lady, will you walk about with your friend?” the first of the group asked, outstretching a gloved hand to Arwen, which she graciously accepted. The music lifted and they waltzed away, followed by a handful of other couples. 

Most of the hooded figures found partners straight away. Of the few that remained, one figure hovered low by one of the tables, saying nothing and simply observing. He politely waved off any potential dance partners, though there were few forthcoming. His eyes drifted to various couples on the floor. 

Arwen indeed seemed to be enjoying her dance partner's company. He could not hear what words were exchanged, but his eyes lingered on them until they passed behind a pillar. Deprived of the spectacle he turned his view to the other couples in the room.

He noted the way Erestor was speaking with Lindir, who seemed to have imbibed quite a bit of liquid courage, as it were, and was risking flirtation with Elrond's advisor. 

“Well, I would you did like me,” Lindir declared, voice carrying above the crowd. 

Erestor looked oddly flustered at the younger Elf's advances. “I have many ill qualities.” He replied.

Lindir smiled. “Which is one?”

“I take notes aloud.”

“Ah, then you might make me love you all the more, for you have a beautiful voice!

Erestor blushed a bit, before again trying to usher the little elf away. He silently swore to never let Thranduil influence his attire ever again—he was getting far more attention that he was used to. He was rather certain that the minstrel would be very embarrassed with himself in the morrow, for he had never seen the minstrel act so boldly, save for when he performed. But Lindir was determined, and he did not let Erestor go that night without before getting one dance.

Thranduil had by now truly begun to lose his senses and where Linidr might had had some modesty in his pursuit of dance partners, the Mirkwood King had none. He was dallying about Glorfindel, comically hiding his face with a second discarded mask, challenging him: “Guess who?”

The balrog slayer indeed took it all in good humor. “I know you well enough. You are King Thranduil.”

“At a word, I am not!”

Glorfindel chuckled. “I know you by your feathers!” He said, and made to pluck one long plume from the king's headdress. 

Thranduil swerved away. “No, no! I'm only pretending to be him!!!”

“Oh, you could never do him so ill-well unless you were the very man!”

“At a word, I am not.” Thranduil insisted unable to hide his mirth. Glorfindel wondered of which wines the king had partaken. 

Across the way, Legolas stood looking quite cross ans he conversed with another disguised man who like Lindir and Thranduil seemed to have taken a bit too much to drink, for his stance was wobbly. 

“Will you not tell me who told you so?” He demanded of the stranger.

“Not now!” 

“That I was disdainful and that I had my good wit stolen from poorly written satire?” Legolas sighed. “That must have been Gimli that said so!”

“Who is that?”  
Legolas frowned. “You must know him.”

“Not I, believe me!”

“Why, he is Istari's Dwarf! A very dull fool. His only gift is in devising impossible slanders, all of the most indecent sort! He is naught but offensive. He both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him, and beat him.” Legolas looked about the hall. “I'm sure he is in the fleet—I swear he crashed into him early. He lacks a certain grace.”

“When I know the Dwarf, I will tell him what you say.” The robed man promised. 

Legolas smiled, mischievously. “Do, good friend!” The song changed, shifting Legolas' attention briefly. The prince considered something for a moment, and turned to invite the stranger for a dance, but when he looked back, he was gone. Legolas felt mildly disappointed.


End file.
